


The Teacher's Daughter

by idkdestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cutie pies, Dean can be such a sap, F/M, Fluff, For my bae BlackLaceAndCrimsonRibbon, Mean, parent!Cas, teacher!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:25:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idkdestiel/pseuds/idkdestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the Mean fic for BlackLaceAndCrimsonRibbon because she's awesome and yeah. I hope you enjoy it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Teacher's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackLaceAndCrimsonRibbon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackLaceAndCrimsonRibbon/gifts).



Maybe it’s always been there. That certain indefinable something that made it so incredibly hard for Dean to tear his eyes off her.  
  
Maybe it was the way she would laugh at a corny joke her best friend would whisper into hear ear, bent across the small space between their tables and the tip of her nose an inch away from her hair. Dean would pay a lot of money to be that friend.  
  
Maybe it was her hair alone and the way it fell in soft curls over her shoulders that he craved to touch so badly. On a warm summer night, Dean liked to imagine she was right beside him and he could tangle his fingers in her hair, strawberry blonde that faded into white at the tips from sitting in the sun.  
  
When Dean looked at her, he immediately associated her with the sun. That was another thing he couldn’t explain. Probably it was because he sometimes stayed after school to watch her while she was at band practice. She loved to sit on the bench in front of their school, eyes closed and the hint of a smile tracing the corners of her lips.  
  
Maybe it were her lips all along, their shape, the way they quirked upwards when she was suppressing a laugh. Dean would like to be the one making her laugh one day. Just elicit one laugh and he’d have something to cling to when shit came down at home. It would be enough to carry him through the day, the knowledge that he managed to make her laugh.  
  
Or maybe it were her eyes, greyish blue like the sea on a stormy day, flecked with dots of green, and deep enough to get caught in them while looking at her.  
  
In the end, Dean came to the conclusion, it was all of her.  
  
Ever since his Freshman year, Dean has seperated himself from the others, didn’t want to hang out with the football players, though a few showed a huge interest in him. Didn’t want to be seen with the geeky guys, experimenting with chemicals in the lab rooms during breaks.  
  
Dean liked to be alone. He would like it even more if he could be alone together with her.  
  
There had been one time she’d looked directly at him. It’s been more of an accident than actual fate, but Dean remembered the exact situation. She’d been busy with the number wheel of her locker, a shit ton of books pinned against her chest with her free arm, and her best friend had been talking to her. He’d been about a few steps away from where the two girls had been standing when it happened.  
  
She’d dropped her books and before her friend had been able to react, Dean had crouched down and picked them up for her.  
  
He wished he’d been able to take a picture of her face in the second he’d stood up straight and handed her her books.  
  
Her features had been an outright cute mix of confusion, bashfulness and amusemt, cheeks painted in a light pink. “Thank you,” she’d said, lips wrapping around the words so easily and Dean had been unable to move as she’d batted her eyelashes.  
  
That’s why now he was staring at her back, trying to get her attention by boring holes in her neck with just his eyes, which, quite frankly, was a rather hard thing to do. He saw the teacher scrawl letters and numbers on the blackboard, but they didn’t make any sense to him. Why should he care about ancient artists’ dying days?  
  
He sucked at Art History and he sucked at drawing.  
  
Dean didn’t even know why the fuck he was in this class, he was just wasting his time. It’s not like he’d pursue a career in drawing people or working with Photoshop to alienate someone’s face.  
  
His eyes were drawn back to her hair, which she wore in a ponytail today.  
  
If she was any other girl, Dean would’ve done something as stereotypical as flashing his most appealing smirk and biting his lip in a really stupid way. Probably he could’ve gotten her to kiss him and maybe go even further than that, but Dean knew that she was a girl with three red exclamation marks over her head.  
  
The problem was that Morgan was his teacher’s daughter.  
  
  
*  
  
  
“Winchester!” a harsh voice called.  
  
Dean’s head immediately whipped up just to find the entire class staring at him. “Yes? Present?” he said tentatively, shaking his head to banish the diziness. There was a wet spot on his face, but he couldn’t tell whether it was the water that was dripping from the edge of his table or the paint he’d obviously fallen asleep in.  
  
When he wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, though, he discovered that it was a mixture of both.  
  
“Can somebody _please_ take pity on Mr. Winchester?” his Art teacher sighed in exasperation and continued to wander around between rows of chairs, peeking over his students’ shoulders on occasion to tell them how they could enhance their drawing skills.  
  
No one followed Mr. Novak’s request for quite a while and Dean was about to simply go to the restrooms and take care of the colorful mess that his face must be in that very moment, when a chair at the other end of the classroom creaked. He didn’t dare to turn around, he didn’t know who it was that just stood up.  
  
Maybe it was Gordon, who still wanted to take revenge on him because Dean pretty much stole his Prom date in Freshman year. Fine, maybe it hadn’t exactly been fair to simply ask his almost-girlfriend out for Prom, but Dean just didn’t like Gordon and had wanted to ruin his evening.  
  
That definitely wasn’t Gordon’s hand on his shoulder a moment later.  
  
It was too elegant and gentle to be his. And it also was too delicate to be a guy’s hand in the first place. The painted nails just confirmed his conclusion and as he finally turned his head, he found himself staring up at her.  
  
Morgan.  
  
She was holding a napkin in her other hand and made an inviting gesture with it. “Turn around a little, please,” she demanded. Morgan was shorter than him, probably around 5’3, but it made Dean want to press her body against his even more. She could easily bury her head in his chest and he would be able to rest his chin on top of her head.  
  
Named head was currently almost ridiculously close to his own as she started wiping the paint-water mix off his face.  
  
Dean couldn’t help the, “Do you like me better like this?” once she put the napkin away and brushed a single strand of his light-brown hair back into its place. She seemed to be stumped for an answer for several seconds, but before Dean was able to say anything else, she opened her mouth to speak.  
  
“Yeah, looks much better, Dean.”  
  
He also couldn’t help the smirk making its way onto his lips as he quickly placed his hand over hers as she attempted to pull away. Morgan’s hand was warm under his, soft and fragile, and maybe Dean held it a little longer than necessary.  
  
Fortunately, though, she didn’t seem to mind. That means if the blush on her cheeks was anything to give by, but when she swiveled around to return to her place, she didn’t look back and Dean doubted everything once again.  
  
Some days he could outright doom himself for falling for her, the girl whose teacher taught the crappiest subject at school.  
  
“You need to stop giving him heart eyes, bunny,” a voice sounded then, cutting through the silence in the classroom like a peal of thunder, shaking Dean to his bones and shattering him into tiny pieces, which he only barely managed to put back together once he realized who it was that spoke.  
  
It was Morgan’s best friend, a girl with brown hair.  
  
“Jesus,” Morgan hissed and shoved at her shoulder, trying to look inconspicuously over at him, but Dean caught her glance and cocked one eyebrow to let her know he’d heard every single syllable her friend had said.  
  
She didn’t look at him after this again.  
  
The rest of his school day passed pretty much by in a blur and when the bell rang for the last time on this cold November day, Dean managed to reach Morgan’s locker before she herself did.  
  
“Dean?” she honestly sounded surprised.  
  
Of course he was there, how couldn’t he be after hearing her best friend, who obviously knew Morgan the best, say that she was giving him heart eyes. Nobody could tell him that this didn’t mean something more than just platonic friendship. Coming to think about it, they weren’t even friends, they were classmates, nothing more and nothing less. At least for now.  
  
“Yeah, just me,” he answered, leaning against the locker and enjoying the way he was towering over her just a little too much.  Dean could hear the breath hitch in her throat as he leant just a little closer, close enough that if Morgan wanted, she could easily angle her head and press her lips against his. That wouldn’t actually be the worst thing that could happen right now.  
  
“What – uh – are you doing here?” she asked shyly, taking a step back, and tucked a strand of hair behind her hear.  
  
Today, she was wearing dark stud earrings that brought out the color of her eyes.  
  
Dean let his tongue dart out to lick across his lips. What he was about to do was dangerous, it could ruin everything without it having even started, yet. “Talking to you, if that hasn’t been obvious already,” he said.  
  
He could honestly punch himself in the face. Why did he have to say something so stupid in a situation like this? “I meant, uh, do you have band practice today?”  
  
Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she took another small step back. “How come you know I have band practice at all? I’ve never seen you there?” Morgan’s voice sounded cautious as if she didn’t trust him. Fair point, he did seem like a stalker at the moment.  
  
Dean froze and needed a minute to figure out an explanation that wasn’t too obvious. “Saw you guys disappear inside the band room.”  
  
His gaze started wandering around aimlessly, desperately trying to look somewhere else than directly her face. “Yeah, okay,” she muttered and bit her lip, letting her eyes flicker down to the door of her locker, which Dean was still resting against. It’s not like Dean didn’t get the hint, he just needed to finish this conversation first.  
  
“So, uh, I was just wondering if – I mean you’re pretty good at Art History and I was – maybe you could give me some kinda coaching. Maybe. If that's possible and okay with your schedule?" he started babbling and didn't stop until Morgan raised one hand to stop him from embarrassing himself even more.  
  
"Dean. Yes. That's cool."  
  
"Tomorrow?"  
  
Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Dean shifted until he was far away enough from her face to hold her gaze effortlessly. Probably he's been too straightforward, too eager, too-  
  
"Sure, why not? Your place?"  
  
Dean was pretty sure his mouth was gaping open and he looked like the dumbass of the year, but couldn't get himself to care. "Oh - uh - great. I'm just gonna - you know - head home. See you tomorrow, like, yeah, okay," he mumbled as he bumped ungracefully in a guy standing behind him, whose laughter echoed in his ears on his way home.  
  
  
*  
  
Thursday afternoon couldn't come fast enough.  
  
By the time Dean got home he was nearly hyperventilating from the pressure of cleaning the entire apartment he lived in with his father John and his little brother Sammy. "Dean?" Sammy asked sleepily and lifted his small head from where he was resting on the couch.  
  
"You stay asleep, buddy, need to nurse you back to health," Dean replied, ruffling his hair affectionately.  
  
"Why are you so jumpy?" his little brother wanted to know, propping himself up onto his elbow. For someone who wasn't even 10 years old, Sam was one hell of a nosey bitch. "Got someone coming over today," he explained as calmly as possible while he wiped down the kitchen table, putting a single used plate in the dishwasher in a swift motion.   
  
"Who?"  
  
"Just someone, Sammy, Christ, stop fucking interrogating me. What are you, my lawyer?"  
  
"Yes," Sam answered sternly and took a tiny sip of his herbal tea, which, on short notice, really smelled anything but good. "So, who is that someone?"  
  
Dean let out a sigh and turned to face the little asshat that was his brother. "She's helping me with Art History, happy now?" Apparently, it made Sam more than happy because he raised both his eyebrows and turned on one of his many bitchfaces.   
  
"A she-person."  
  
"If that's what you call a girl, yeah, Sammy, a  _she-person._ "  
  
That drew a pained cackle from Sam and he curled up on the ragged cushion of the sofa. "Do I have to go to my room while your lady-friend is here?" he asked feebly, face buried in the crook of his slender arm. "No, buddy, of course not," Dean assured him and patted his head as gently as possible.  
  
The kid had a goddamn fever raging inside him after all.  
  
"What's her name?" Sammy kept on digging. "Morgan," Dean told him, pursing his lips as he saw his brother's face light up in a grin. "Last name?"  
  
"Novak."  
  
Silence was all that followed that word. "Wait," Sammy mumbled, lifting his small pointer finger to make Dean understand that he was busy figuring something out and could not be disturbed under any circumstances, "Novak as in 'I hate that sonofabitch friggen Novak' kind of Novak?"  
  
"She's, well, she's that kind of Novak's daughter, yeah."  
  
Sam's eyebrows seemed to disappear in his hairline. "Is that even allowed?" Dean frowned. "Is what allowed?" Immediately, the mocking expression was back on his little brother's features and he shook his head with a quiet chuckle.  
  
"Dean, I don't wanna say it."  
  
"Sam."  
  
"You know," he drawled awkwardly, "getting the teacher's daughter pregnant." Dean's cheeks felt like they were on fire, a blush spreading across his face and down his neck. "I'm not getting anyone pregnant, Sammy, Jesus, you need Jesus. What kind of crap did you watch?"  
  
Now it was Sam's turn to blush. "This man on TV told a woman he'd help her make understand something with History, I'm not quite sure. She ended up pregnant, I don't know."  
  
Well, that explained a lot. "Look, Sammy, giving private lessons does not get the girl pregnant, okay?" he explained, only barely holding back a guffaw.  
  
All of a sudden the bell startled Dean and he dropped Sam's cup onto the carpet, tea sloshing out of it and seeping into the red fabric. "Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled and stumbled over to open the door quickly. To his utter surprise as well as delight, Morgan was standing in front of his apartment door instead of the front door of the house.  
  
"What a nice salutation," she giggled and the corners of her mouth lifted into a small smile.  
  
"What? Oh, no, I'm sorry, I was just-"  
  
"Dean is that your lady-friend?" Sam shouted, his voice coming out broken and hoarse, but the words were still articulate. "She won't be anymore if you keep on annoying her!" Dean growled darkly and opened the door a little wider to allow Morgan to step in.  
  
"Thanks for, you know, coming over."  
  
There was a blush on her cheeks as he glanced over at her. It would be so fucking easy to simply reach over and put his arm around her waist, but he hesitated mid-motion. "Of course, Dean," she smiled and it was so sincere, it made him cringe. Someone like her deserved a whole lot better than him.  
  
"If he says something about pregnancy, don't listen to him, he's got a fever and is a little stupid bitch," Dean told her, guiding Morgan into the living room and indirectly introducing her to Sam, who let out a protesting squeal.  
  
"It's cool, buddy, here," Dean grinned and handed Sammy an energy bar from the top shelf.  
  
That shut him up and his brother took great joy in gnawing obscenely noisily on his food. "D'you, you know, wanna go to my room?"  
  
Morgan gave another one of her hesitant and really cute smiles before she nodded. "Sure." Maybe Dean should have suggested to sit down at the living room table with Sam and work there, but he didn't want his brother to actually start talking about pregnancy again nor did he want to have Sammy anywhere near Morgan at all.  
  
Dean closed the door behind her and awkwardly gestured around in the room. It was small, but it was decent and it was pretty much all he owned apart from his clothes and toothbrush.  
  
"Pregnancy?" Morgan asked unceremoniously, another smile tugging on the corners of her lips.  
  
Fidgeting uneasily, Dean ran a hand through his hair and began to explain, "Sammy watched some weird ass movie and now - uh - believes that private lessons end with, you know, the girl getting pregnant."  
  
A second later, Morgan's laughter filled the room.  
  
She shook her head and turned away slightly, so Dean couldn't exactly see all of her face, which made him want to reach out, cup her cheeks and hold her head in place. Maybe kiss her - he didn't even know. "Wanna start?" she addressed him once more. "Uh, yeah," Dean said and was about to tell her to simply sit down on the bed since he only had one chair in his room, but she already proceeded to sit down on the floor, cross-legged, and pull various papers out of her bag.  
  
Dean tried to listen, he really did.  
  
But he was sitting too close to her, he could physically feel the heat radiating off her body because she was just so close to him. Eventually, Dean gave in and shifted the tiny bit that it needed for his shoulder to brush against hers. It was just an infinitesimal movement, but he saw the exact moment Morgan noticed their bodies were connected at the small spot that were their shoulders.  
  
Instead of withdrawing herself, though, she leant against his side. Slowly and shyly and Dean couldn't stand it. But before he allowed himself to be selfish and simply  _take,_ he had to at least make sure that he wasn't misreading anything here.  
  
"Heart eyes?" he mumbled, papers about Da Vinci totally forgotten.  
  
She let out a surprised noise and Dean could feel her flinch, but she still didn't pull away. There was only so much Dean could take and having Morgan all flustered beside him and just so fucking  _close_ definitely was more than that.  
  
He quickly moved his legs until he was sitting on his heels and leant in.  
  
A second before his lips brushed hers, he heard her mumble his name and that was just more of an encouragement, really. One hand automatically found its way up to her cheek, callused palm against soft skin, and it was just perfect. The way her hair tickled his neck, the way she smiled into the kiss as if she couldn't believe it was actually happening and he absolutely adored the light flush that was gracing her cheeks as he pulled away.  
  
"Jesus," Morgan mumbled, fiddling nervously with her hair.  
  
Dean smirked slyly. "Call me Dean," he said and kissed her again.  
  
Her hair was soft under his fingers as he moved one hand to the side of her head, it was even better than he'd imagined. The paper about drawing techniques crumpled up under his knee as he shifted a little closer to pull her against him.  
  
"Aren't you doing it wrong?"  
  
Immediately, Morgan pulled back and stared in utter shock up at the boy leaning against Dean's doorframe. "Goddammit, Sammy! Have you never heard of fucking knocking?" Dean scolded his younger brother and ran a hand through his hair, slightly embarrassed himself.  
  
"I did knock, but you didn't say anything," Sammy complained and held out his cup, "I just wanted more."  
  
With a loud sigh, Dean scrambled to get up and took the empty cup out of his brother's hand. "Fine, but when I don't answer it means that I don't want you to come in," he told him, grabbing the teapot from the counter in their kitchenette and pouring the disgusting-smelling fluid in the cup.  
  
"Right, sorry. But does that mean she is your lady-lady-friend now?" Sam asked curiously, small fingers curling around the handle of the tea cup.  
  
"You go watch a movie, buddy," Dean demanded and shoved Sammy towards the couch.  
  
Morgan actually managed to teach him Art History that day, but Dean insisted on introducing her to classic rock. It really was a lucky coincidence that she immediately fell for Robert Plant's voice because soon she was quietly humming along to most of the songs.  
  
And when she left that evening, Dean kissed her goodbye. It didn't mean forever, it meant until next time.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sometimes all Dean wanted to do was push Morgan up against her locker at school and kiss her to show everyone, including her annoying father, that she belonged to him, but he never quite crossed that line.  
  
Yes, he kissed her at school. He kissed her whenever he had the opportunity to, but he still was afraid of the man with eyes blue enough to stab you.  
  
December brought a heavy snowfall in its wake and Dean enjoyed the way there were snowflakes caught in her hair when she arrived at school, the tip of her nose reddened, but she always was smiling. He liked it that her cheeks were cold because that always gave him an excuse to take her face in his hands mumble words of affection into her hair.  
  
She always tried to swat his hands away, giggling in that adorable way of hers, but he never let her, he just kept his hands where they were.  
  
Where they belonged.  
  
The temperature was decreasing gradually and Dean couldn't get enough of the days he and Morgan would simply lie on his bed together, her head resting on his chest and his arm around her shoulders. They watched crystal-like snowflakes fall outside his bedroom window and drank hot chocolate and on occasion she allowed him to feed her gingerbread, but that didn't happen quite as often.  
  
It was one of those staying-in-bed-days, that Dean said, "You know, you remind me of the sun."  
  
Morgan snorted and pushed his side. "Don't be weird, Dean, that's a mean thing to say just because I'm blonde." But he just laughed, rolled over onto his side and rested his head in his hand. "That's not what I meant."  
  
"Then how am I like the sun? A big yellow ball - how is that like me?"   
  
Tracing her cheek with his thumb, Dean answered, "You're so beautfiul that sometimes looking at you hurts. You make the people around you happy, you know that?" When she rolled her eyes, Dean wrapped a single strand of her hair around his finger. "You're so bright, Morgan, really."  
  
"The sun kills people when they get too close," she objected.  
  
"True, but without the sun no plants would be able to grow and we all would die."  
  
"Obviously I can't make plants grow, though, Dean," Morgan kept arguing and tucked her head under his chin, burying her face in Dean's chest. This was exactly how Dean had always imagined it to be.  
  
His voice was quiet when he spoke the next time. "That's just my way of telling you I need you in my life."  
  
"I love you, too, Dean," she mumbled, sighing happily, "but you just say that because you're my boyfriend, don't you? Then there has to be something you dislike about me."  
  
It was not exactly the reaction Dean had hoped for, but he knew exactly what to say.  
  
He gently tapped her chin until she glanced up at him, eyes slightly widened and looking expectantly into his. "There is one thing I don't like," grinned, running a hand through her hair and resting his hand on the back of her neck before he told her what it was.  
  
"You're the teacher's daughter."  
  
She laughed out loud in surprise and it was everything Dean had always wanted. He made her laugh, he often did, but he especially loved it when she laughed when they were all alone because he didn't have to share the sound.  
  
And, seriously, who was Dean to resist that laughter?   
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
